Does Heaven Have Enough Angels Yet?
by Fuwakateema
Summary: I've gone hard and I've gone cold. I can't make the pieces of this cracked life fit. Please forgive me for wanting to know, does Heaven have enough angels yet? (CJ/Josh)
1. Default Chapter

Title: Does Heaven Have Enough Angels Yet?  
  
Author: (fauquita@hotmail.com)  
  
Disclaimer: I bow down before the greatness that is Aaron Sorkin, and admit that these are his characters, not mine...although I usually have more fun with them than he does!  
  
Summary: I've gone hard and I've gone cold. I can't make the pieces of this cracked life fit. Please forgive me for wanting to know, does Heaven have enough angels yet ?  
  
Thanks: To my partners in crime, Sidalicious and Lizisita.   
  
Note: Yes, illness is involved, and again I'm attempting to portray it with the sensitivity it deserves. Be forewarned however that if these kinds of things upset you, you're gonna wanna skip this one. In addition, this is a sequel to 'Silence', so you might want to read that one first.  
  
++++++  
  
I wonder when I began measuring my life by her.  
  
By her nylons drying on the shower rod; by the three different types of hairspray arranged neatly on the bathroom sink; by the various lotions and 'smell pretties' organized according to size in the white wicker basket.  
  
I wonder when I began categorizing a good day as one when I came home and she wasn't collapsed on the bed in a heap, still wearing her suit and shoes.   
  
I wonder when I began categorizing a bad day as one when she and Sam were snapping at each other in an entirely too vicious fashion, and there would be no after-work drink together at one of the bars in Georgetown.  
  
But above all else, I wonder what's wrong with her.  
  
Aside from President Bartlet's betrayal, Grand Jury hearings, and the re-election campaign, I mean.  
  
Because although these things are horrible, they don't account for the paleness of her features, the dark bruises marring her upper arms and thighs, or the easy fatigue that leaves her sighing in exhaustion as soon as we reach her apartment.  
  
I wonder, but I don't ask. I don't know if it's because I'm almost certain she wouldn't tell me the truth anyway, or if it's because I'm afraid of her answer.   
  
She smiles at me now from across the table, a poor attempt really, as it doesn't even reach her eyes. But my heart is warmed at the gesture and I place my hand on her knee anyway.  
  
"I should be getting back to the office soon...there's a strategy meeting, and I was late to the last one, so-"  
  
She cuts me off with a violent shake of her head. "Don't worry about it. I don't want to be responsible for Leo tearing you a new one."  
  
Although her tone is teasing, and light, I can hear the hurt behind her words. She'll make excuses about needing to read some briefing memos, or catching up on some housework, but I know she resents not being included in the re-election campaign meetings along with Toby and Sam. And me. She hides behind an indifferent mask of professionalism because she doesn't want any of us to think her petulant.  
  
But sometimes when I get home, I see the tear stains on her cheeks and I know they weren't caused by the latest labor statistics, or the GDP. And in the morning, her eyes will be puffy and swollen, but she'll just shrug off my questions and mutter something about allergies.  
  
I've done laundry with this woman, rubbed her feet after a long day; hell, I've even gone to the store on my way home from work and picked up tampons for her. I, Josh Lyman, stood in the aisle of Walgreen's reading off labels of feminine products to her over the cell phone to make sure I got the right brand. I know her; I love her, and she thinks she can keep things from me.  
  
I sign the bill, and help her with her coat. Her lips linger on my cheek and she whispers a good-bye before trudging out of the restaurant, looking terribly small against the velvet night.  
  
I hope that tonight will be the night I walk through the door and she's singing along to the radio in the kitchen. Or soaking in the bathtub reading something that has nothing to do with MS, national debt, or exports of Nigeria.  
  
I hope that tonight I'll see the old CJ. The one who used to drag me into the living room so that I could see the new Britney Spears video, and make all the right comments about how cheap she looks, and how she really doesn't sing or dance all that well. The one who used to paint my toenails while I dozed on the couch. The one who knew every song from every musical made in the last thirty years, and who demonstrated her knowledge by singing in a clear soprano. The one who used to wipe the floor with Sam, Donna and me at Trivial Pursuit on Saturday nights when we had nothing better to do.  
  
But I know instinctively that I'll come home to the new CJ. The one who cries herself to sleep at night, but never tells me why. The one who silences my questions with hard kisses and cold hands. The one who argues with Sam about moot points, even after everyone has moved on to other issues. The one who looks as if she's ready to break.  
  
But I love her, and I'll be there to pick up the pieces when she falls apart.  
  
++++++  
  
He's worried about me.   
  
Hell, I'm worried about me. I can't ever remember feeling this tired, this defeated. I've been left behind, pushed aside, and almost all together forgotten about. Or at least it feels that way.  
  
Josh tries hard to include me, tries to make me feel like I'm still part of the team, but a drink after work with Sam, Toby, Bruno, and Connie isn't going to erase the insecurities I feel. Neither are the kisses, or the chocolate he offers when he comes home sometimes.  
  
There are days when I just want to stay in bed and contemplate things like disabling diseases of the central nervous system, numbness in limbs, severe paralysis, and loss of vision. I want to contemplate these things I have been reading about almost obsessively for the past few weeks, much to Josh's chagrin.  
  
He never says anything, but I see the disapproval in his eyes when he comes home and sees I've checked out five new books, all saying the same thing, about Multiple Sclerosis. I know he rolls his eyes at the notes I jot down on yellow stickies, and I know he hates it when he tries to tell me about his day, but I'm too engrossed with treatment and funding information to really pay attention.  
  
And there are days when I just want to stay in bed and let the exhaustion that resides right behind my eyes and creeps in my bones take control. I want to sleep that delicious sleep of fairy tales where I wake up refreshed and ready to take on the world.  
  
I want to be able to eat without having to force myself. I want to be able to look in the mirror without noticing the large bruises on my upper arm, dark against my too-pale skin. I want to be able to walk down the stairs without feeling the dull ache in my joints.  
  
I want to be able to apologize to Sam and mean it. I want to be able to impress Leo with my knowledge on the new ambassador from the Netherlands. I want to be able to spend one night with Josh without the rest of these worries running around in my head.  
  
And because I want to do these things, I pick up the phone and make an appointment with an old friend at GW.  
  
It's only the flu of course, but I've been trying to fight it off for the better part of three weeks, and Josh is starting to worry.  
  
And because he's worrying, I decide to put aside 'Living with Multiple Sclerosis' for one night. I soak in the bathtub with the gel he got me from Bath and Body Works...Sun-Ripened Raspberry, or Country Apple, or something like that. I slip on the silk nightgown he loves so much, ignoring how big it is on me now, and prepare for a night of seduction.  
  
But then I promptly fall asleep on top of the covers, barely acknowledging his presence as he slides into bed beside me much later and envelops me in his arms.  
  
+++++++  
  
She's humming some show tune, which I suppose is a good sign, and nibbling on the bagel I placed on her desk before she got into work this morning, when I sit down on her couch.  
  
"You're in a good mood."  
  
She peers at me over her glasses and says, "Yeah, and no thanks to you, Joshua. You did a very, very bad thing."  
  
"What the hell did I do except bring you a bagel?"  
  
"You re-set my alarm clock."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Are you going to punish me?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because you'd enjoy it."  
  
"So what are you going to do?"  
  
"I'm going to stop speaking to you for the rest of the day."  
  
"You promise?"  
  
She throws a wadded up piece of paper at my head. "I'm serious here. I'm pissed at you."  
  
"Because I let you sleep in?"  
  
"I'm a grown woman."  
  
"Thanks for pointing that out, CJ. I never would have noticed."  
  
"I'm just saying...I wanted to come in early. I still have a stack of press releases that need to be looked over."  
  
"You don't sleep enough," I say quietly as I study my hands.  
  
"This coming from the man who doesn't sleep at all! That's rich."  
  
"CJ," I sigh and lean my head on the tips of two fingers. "You look like hell, and people are starting to notice."  
  
Her mouth hangs open for a few seconds and then she stands up. "So now, not only are you re-setting my alarm clock, but you're also insulting me. That's it, I'm cutting you off."  
  
"I mean it. Even the President is asking about you."  
  
"Why the hell doesn't he ask me himself?"  
  
"He knows you're pissed at him," I explain as she sits beside me. "I think he's a little scared of you at the moment."  
  
"He should be," she says as she leans her head against the cushion, closing her eyes.   
  
I reach out and gently stroke the column of her neck and am heartened by the fact that she does not pull away, that she in fact, leans into the touch. She rolls her head and looks at me. "What am I going to do with you?"  
  
"You can take me to lunch."  
  
"It's only eight-thirty in the morning, and you're already thinking about lunch?"  
  
"I just want to make sure you free your schedule in time."  
  
"Well, as much as I'd love to watch you, watch me, eat, I'm afraid I already have a date."  
  
"Anybody I know?"  
  
"Kevin."  
  
"Kevin?"  
  
"Yeah...we've only had dinner with him like three times. Kevin...from Berkeley."  
  
Oh yes. Kevin. The six foot four, dark-haired hunk-Donna's description not mine-- who acts too familiar around my girlfriend. Yes, I remember him now. I clear my throat and try to appear nonchalant. "Oh really? Any particular reason?"  
  
"Are we going to do this again?"  
  
"Do what?"  
  
She rolls her eyes at me, but I can tell she's more amused than anything else because she pats the side of my cheek and settles her hand on my chest. "You know...we're at the part right now where you act like you don't care, and then later you'll be pouting in your office, and I'll have to-"  
  
I silence her with a kiss, and I feel her smile against my mouth. She pinches me in the side lightly and pulls away a centimeter or two. "You don't play fair."  
  
"No, but you like it."  
  
She gives me a dubious look as she gets to her feet. "Is there anything else you wanted, or can I, you know, get back to work?"  
  
"No, no. I'm sure I can find more stimulating conversation elsewhere."  
  
"Swear to God, Josh, if you question my intelligence one more time, I really am going to cut you off."  
  
"I'm leaving now." I'm almost through the door when I remember the other reason I came here. "Look, CJ, Bruno wants to have another meeting tonight. I know we were supposed to have dinner, but I don't know how late it's going to run. So-"  
  
"So, you're standing me up...again?"  
  
She's staring down at a folder laying open on her desk and I know things are bad because she won't look at me. I sigh in frustration and lean back into her office, closing the door behind me. She's spoiling for a fight...I can tell by the set of her shoulders, and I don't think it's going to be avoidable.  
  
"CJ-"  
  
"No, you know what? It's fine, really. It's only like the fifth time in the last two weeks that you've bowed out on me."  
  
"You know what it's like here...I can't just tell Bruno I'm not going to make it because my girlfriend feels a little neglected."  
  
I have what is commonly referred to as 'foot-in-mouth' disease. I know it's the wrong thing to say even as it comes out of my mouth, but I can't seem to stop myself. It's a travesty, really, when you think about it.  
  
Her head snaps up and I'm the recipient of a withering glare that would make Attila the Hun run for cover. "A little neglected? You patronizing son of a-"  
  
"CJ?" Carol pokes her head in the door and mumbles an apology as she gestures to the hallway. "You've got the briefing in a minute and-"  
  
"All right." CJ replies tiredly as she shrugs on her blazer. She brushes past me without another word and I'm left standing in her empty office, thanking God for Carol and White House Press Briefings.  
  
++++++++  
  
I'm soaking in the bathtub when he pokes his head around the corner and smiles. "Can I come in?"  
  
"That depends."  
  
"On what?"  
  
"Did you come bearing gifts?"  
  
"Am I not enough anymore?"  
  
"Unless you have some White Zinfandel with you, you're not welcome."  
  
He smiles broadly as he pulls out a crystal fluke from behind his back. "Ask and ye shall receive."  
  
I accept the glass and smile back at him. "Don't keep this up, Josh. That well-cultivated reputation you have for being a pain in the ass might get tarnished."  
  
He kneels down beside the bathtub and shrugs. "Naw, I trust you won't let this get out."  
  
"What, that you have a tendency to be incredibly sweet sometimes?" I ask as I take a grateful swallow of the wine. He looks down at the crossword puzzle I've been trying to solve, and he lifts the corners of his mouth. "I'm sorry about earlier today, Josh." I wait until he meets my gaze before continuing. "I just...I just miss you sometimes."  
  
He sighs and then takes one of my hands. "CJ, you knew before we got involved that the hours would be horrendous."  
  
"Yes, well, at the time, I kind of took for granted that we'd be working side-by-side. You'd be occupied, I'd be occupied, and the little time we had would be spent together."  
  
"I'm sorry you're feeling left out, but there's nothing I can do."  
  
"I know, which is why I'm apologizing."  
  
"So, how did lunch with Kevin go?" he asks as he begins to undress.  
  
I wait until he has settled into the water at the other end of the tub before I respond. "It was fine. He's getting married, you know."  
  
He lifts one of my legs out of the tub and rests my foot against his chest as he begins to massage my calve. "Again? This would be the, what, fourth time?"  
  
"The second," I correct automatically.  
  
He rolls his eyes. "Any other news?"  
  
"No," I lie smoothly.   
  
I won't tell him of the paper gown and the needles; of the strained conversation with Kevin who was asking entirely too many embarrassing questions; of the promise to hear from him in the next few days when the blood work gets back from the lab.  
  
He accepts my answer and I almost feel guilty. Almost.  
  
++++++++  
  
TBC 


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Does Heaven Have Enough Angels Yet?  
  
Author: (fauquita@hotmail.com)  
  
Disclaimer: I bow down before the greatness that is Aaron Sorkin, and admit that these are his characters, not mine...although I usually have more fun with them than he does!  
  
Summary: I've gone hard and I've gone cold. I can't make the pieces of this cracked life fit. Please forgive me for wanting to know, does Heaven have enough angels yet ?  
  
Thanks: To my partners in crime, Sidalicious and Lizisita.   
  
Note: Yes, illness is involved, and again I'm attempting to portray it with the sensitivity it deserves. Be forewarned however that if these kinds of things upset you, you're gonna wanna skip this one. In addition, this is a sequel to 'Silence', so you might want to read that one first. Oh, and this is entirely AU...I mean, I'll pick and choose what I want to include from third season.  
  
++++++  
  
Part II  
  
There's a muffled buzzing just around the edges of my consciousness, and somewhere in the deep recesses of my sleep-addled mind, I realize that it's the TV. I reach across to the other side of the bed blindly and pry open one eye as my hand touches only the cool sheets. Damn.  
  
I lie there for a few more moments, listening as Conan O'Brien and Al Roker exchange insults and barbs over muted audience laughter. The hallway glows eerily from the TV light and I sigh as I throw the covers back. One loose floorboard groans under my weight and she turns her head to look at me.  
  
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," CJ apologizes quietly as I sit beside her on the couch.  
  
She's wearing only an over-sized T-shirt, washed so many times over the years that the Berkeley logo has faded into almost non-existence, and I pat her smooth leg reassuringly. "You didn't wake me up," I lie, my voice husky with sleep.  
  
She smiles even as she looks at me dubiously. "You should get back to bed, I'll turn the volume down."  
  
"I'll go back to bed if you come with me."  
  
She shakes her head and turns her attention back to the television. "I can't sleep. I'll just be staring at the ceiling."  
  
"What's going on?"  
  
"What do you mean?" she asks in annoyance.  
  
"I just mean, you haven't been able to watch loverboy here in a few months because you barely last past the 11 o'clock news."  
  
"For the last time, I do not have a crush on Conan O'Brien," she laughs as she slaps my leg.  
  
I grab her hand and squeeze it gently. "Whatever. The point is, something must be bothering you if you're up at this time of night."  
  
"Hmmm, what could possibly be bothering me? Well, there is that pesky grand jury and impending subpoenas. Oh, and you know what else? The President has this awful debilitating disease, and he's going to die from it," she says angrily as she pulls her hand from mine violently and stands up.  
  
"You don't know that," I say quietly. When she raises an eyebrow, I continue. "You don't know that MS is going to kill him."  
  
"Yeah, because there are always car accidents, and you know, assassins," she says sarcastically. Her eyes soften however as I move my hand unconsciously to my T-shirt covered chest, tracing the scar beneath it. She sighs in frustration and sits beside me on the couch once more. "I'm sorry."  
  
"No, no...I understand."  
  
She reclines against me, resting her head on my shoulder. "It's just...nothing in particular and everything in general. I'm just overwhelmed."  
  
The vulnerability in her voice surprises me, and I gently thread my fingers through her hair. "You can talk to me, CJ."  
  
She grabs a fistful of my shirt and smiles as she kisses the side of my neck. "Yeah, because you don't have enough to worry about already."  
  
"I'm serious here. I want you to talk to me."  
  
"I do talk to you, Josh," she sighs as she nestles closer to my body.  
  
"Fine," I say in frustration because I know we're not getting anywhere. I'll continue to push, and she'll evade like she usually does.  
  
"Now you're mad at me."  
  
"I'm not mad at you."  
  
"Well, if you're not mad at me, then why are you pouting?" She's more amused than anything else because she's poking me in the side, trying to elicit a smile.  
  
"I'm not pouting."  
  
"You really are, mi amor."  
  
"OK, I am mad," I finally admit.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because...because...damn it, CJ. Why are you so good at pretending that everything's fine?"  
  
"Because everything is fine, Josh," she replies patronizingly.  
  
I roll my eyes and let out a long, slow breath. "Ok."  
  
She regards me quietly for a moment and then moves to straddle my thighs. I look at her in surprise as she cradles my face in her hands. She lowers her mouth to mine in an intoxicating kiss and when she pulls back, I'm sure I'm grinning like a fool.  
  
"Do you trust me?" she asks quietly.  
  
"Of course," I reply without hesitation.  
  
"Josh, I promise that if there is anything worth..." she pauses momentarily and shrugs, "mentioning, then you will be the first to know."  
  
I smile at her and rest my hands on her hips. "Good enough for now."  
  
She cocks her head to the side and bites her lip contemplatively. Then her large eyes light up mischievously as her hands travel to the bottom of my T-shirt. She gently pulls it over my head, and I moan in pleasure as her lips travel across my chest.  
  
All coherent thought escapes me when she captures my bottom lip between her teeth, nibbling gently on the flesh. She smiles against my mouth when my hands move beneath her shirt to stroke her spine. She pulls back suddenly,  
  
  
"Take me to bed, Joshua."  
  
  
  
Some mornings he wakes me up with the gentle exploration of his hands across my body. Some mornings he wakes me up with feather-light kisses upon my eyelids. Some mornings he wakes me up with a steaming mug of coffee and a shake to the shoulders. And some mornings I lie awake hours before him, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest.  
  
The light of dawn streams in through the blinds and I roll closer to his naked body beneath the sheets, desperate for the warmth he offers. I wrap my arms around his waist, resting my head at the juncture between his shoulder and neck. His breathing grows shallow as he begins to wake up under my touch.  
  
"Good morning," he says huskily. And although I can't see his face, I know he's smiling.  
  
"Morning," I whisper as I press a soft kiss to the skin of his shoulder.  
  
He turns in my embrace and brings his hand up to rest on my cheek, his thumb moving in slow circles across my skin. "What time is it?"  
  
"A little before six."  
  
"We still have thirty minutes before we absolutely have to get up, you know," he says waggling his eyebrows suggestively.  
  
His lips meet mine in a searing kiss, and our tongues begin their familiar dance when the phone rings shrilly, causing us both to jump in surprise. Josh reaches behind him to the phone on the nightstand, cursing under his breath.  
  
"Hello?" he says angrily. His face immediately softens and he rolls his eyes at me. "How are you doing, mom?"  
  
I smile at him and stroke the side of his face before climbing out of bed and heading towards the bathroom. Josh still keeps his house across town even though he spends most of his evenings and weekends at my place. The subject of moving in together has never come up, and I think he's too comfortable with the situation as is to start rocking the boat.  
  
But I find myself wondering sometimes what it would be like to share more than just nights and bodies together. I'm sure he would drive me crazy by leaving dirty clothes outside the hamper and on the bathroom floor. And I'm sure that my compulsive need to vacuum the carpet everyday would leave him sighing in frustration. I think it could work though, which is why I inevitably pick up free renters brochures outside of Walmart about once a week. Hell, I've even toured a few places. All I have to do is get Josh on the same wavelength, but I still haven't garnered the courage to ask his thoughts because I'm scared of what he'll say. Or maybe I'm terrified of what he won't say.  
  
I brush my teeth quickly and step under the warm spray of the shower, sighing softly as the water kneads my tense muscles. The shower curtain is pulled back suddenly, and Josh steps in behind me, running one hand down my slick skin.  
  
"Now, where were we?"  
  
Twenty minutes later, feeling better than I have in weeks, I watch Josh struggle with his tie in the mirror. He catches my eye and smiles, but doesn't say anything to disrupt the easy silence that has fallen between us as we dress. I used to find his presence in the bedroom uncomfortable while pulling on my nylons; now I find it oddly comforting.  
  
"What's your schedule like, today?" he asks as I step past him to pick up my earrings off the bureau.   
  
"I'm not coming in until late morning, so I figure the rest of the day is going to be hectic. Why?"  
  
"I just wanted to see if we could try and grab lunch together today since the last attempt failed miserably," he answers as he sits on the bed to pull his shoes on.   
  
"Maybe next week," I offer.  
  
He nods his head and then looks at me curiously. "Why are you coming in late today?"  
  
"Doctor appointment," I shrug carelessly.  
  
"Is something wrong?" he asks worriedly.  
  
"No...just an annual check-up," I lie smoothly. "Female stuff," I add, hoping this will curb his inquisitiveness.  
  
"Well, ok." He stands up and plants a quick kiss on my lips. "I guess I'll see you later, then."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
He starts walking away, but stops suddenly and turns to face me. "Hey, if we get out at a reasonable hour, maybe we can catch a movie like normal couples."  
  
"I'd like that."  
  
"Kay."  
  
With one last lingering kiss, he grabs his blazer and leaves the room. I hear him rinse out his coffee cup-something I have arduously been training him to do-in the sink, the musical jingle of keys, and the sound of the front door closing.  
  
Only then do I allow the shaking in my hands to take over. I'm not worried, of course. The flu, I have the flu. Kevin will prescribe some antibiotics and direct me to get plenty of fluids and rest. And then I'll be as right as rain in a week or two.  
  
But if that's all I have, why didn't Kevin tell me so over the phone? Why did he have me rearrange my schedule and meetings so that I could meet with him as soon as possible? Why do I feel like nothing is ever going to be the same after today?  
  
  
  
All morning there have been glaring omens that have gone undetected. The campaign meeting ended in a shouting match between Bruno and Toby, Mrs. Bartlet was full of ire and snapping at anyone foolish enough to get in her way after her meeting with Babish and Donna called in sick. So, when I walk into my office to find Danny leaning against the wall, it stands to reason that everything is about to be shot to hell. But the thought doesn't even register.  
  
"Hey, Danny. If you're looking for CJ, she'll be in by ten."  
  
"Yeah, I talked to Carol," he returns quietly. Danny takes a deep breath and observes me silently for a few moments until I wave my arms impatiently.  
  
"What do you need?"  
  
"Barbara Shallick is filing for divorce," he says simply.  
  
"Good for her. Does that mean she's going to start voting Democrat?"  
  
"Barbara Shallick is filing for divorce...and was paid by the Enquirer to give an exclusive."  
  
"Real classy paper, there. I thought she would have gone to something more respectable."  
  
"Barbara Shallick sold her story for a couple of round figures, and the edition came out today."  
  
"Danny, are you close to making a point here? There's been whispers for months now that things aren't so great in the Shallick's marriage," I say in frustration because there are about ten different things I could be doing right now.  
  
Danny clears his throat and rubs his beard nervously. "Josh, one of the things she discloses in this article is the alleged affair between the Senator and CJ."  
  
I have no doubt that right now I could be knocked over with a feather. I literally feel the color drain from my face and I perch on the edge of my desk because I really don't have much faith in the ability of my legs to support me. CJ and Shallick? There's no way in hell.  
  
"You want to run that by me again, Danny?"  
  
He looks truly sympathetic as he shoves his hands into his trouser pockets. "Five years ago before he was a senator."  
  
"But five years ago she..." I trail off and cover my face with my hands. "This can't be happening."  
  
CJ would have told us that the married man she was involved with all those years ago was a high-ranking Republican Senator. She knows the ins and outs of politics by now, and she knows how this would affect us. She would have told us, wouldn't she?  
  
"Look, Josh, from what I understand, Barbara only found out about the affair a few months ago. She makes it clear that this isn't the reason for the divorce, but she sure as hell wasn't going to keep quiet about it."  
  
"So?"  
  
"So, don't be mad at CJ about this. There's no way she could've known that this would ever become public."  
  
"You think this story is true, then?"  
  
He nods his head gravely. "Yeah, I do."  
  
"Damn!" I pound my fist on the desk and clench my jaw. "This is going to cost us."  
  
  
"All the papers will pick up the story and have their own articles out by tomorrow morning. Mrs. Shallick is going to be a very busy woman the next few weeks."  
  
"So what's the fall-out of this going to be?"  
  
"I'm not a political operative, Josh."  
  
"No, but you've covered the white hours for almost ten years now. You've seen a lot of scandals and stories in your time, and I want to know what you think is going to happen!"  
  
"I think this is going to be a story for a few months at least."  
  
"Well, that's a given. What I mean is, do you think..." I trail off because I realize how callous this is going to sound.  
  
Danny picks up my train of thought however, because he narrows his eyes. "You want to know how this is going to affect your reelection chances."  
  
"Yes. And don't look at me like that."  
  
"I don't know," he admits honestly after a slight pause. "With the MS already hanging around your necks, I don't know what this will do. It may not even register, I mean, she did say the man she was involved with was married at the, um, press conference she held after the, well, you know. She just chose not to give further details."  
  
"Yes, but it might be construed as a cover-up?"  
  
"Maybe."  
  
I exhale a long, slow breath and pinch the bridge of my nose. "Ok, look, Danny. Thanks for coming to us with this. It will give us time to prepare."  
  
"Josh-"  
  
"I gotta get to work, now."  
  
He studies me for a few moments and finally acquiesces by walking to the door. He turns around before he walks through and meets my gaze challengingly. "This isn't her fault, Josh."  
  
"I've got work."  
  
Once he closes the door behind him, I pound the desk again in fury. I look at my watch and yell for Donna, and then remember that she's not in. All morning long there were glaring omens that went undetected. I will never admit to this failure of perception, and in a voice haunted with conviction I will tell myself that I saw this coming because, how is it possible I did not?  
  
  
  
So this is what it feels like.  
  
My hands are shaking almost uncontrollably, even as I grip the steering wheel in an effort to steady them, my mouth is dry, and my heart is racing so fast that by all rights it should beat itself right out of my chest.  
  
But I can't move. I've been sitting in my car for the past thirty minutes staring at the odometer because I can't focus on anything other than abnormal blood cells, chemotherapy, and bone marrow transplants. I can't bring myself to start the car because I can't go back to the White House like this.  
  
I can't go back into the press room and deliver a briefing when I can't stop my voice from trembling. I can't waltz into my office and smile the fake smile I've been using for months because this, unlike hurt feelings, can't be fixed by theater tickets. I can't lie about this, or brush it off. I can't deny this.  
  
Leukemia.  
  
I've seen specials on Dateline and 20/20 about people living with cancer, their brave faces smiling at the camera even as they had to wrap their heads in scarves to cover the baldness. Holding on to vanity, even as it becomes the least of their problems; even as their bodies fail to fight infection; even as they're injected with chemicals or subjected to radiation.  
  
But never in a million years did I think I'd become one of these people. Never.   
  
I'm still in shock, if you want to know. I was barely listening to Kevin as he explained treatment methods, side effects and survival rates. I can't imagine what it must have been like for him...having to tell an ex-girlfriend, someone he's seen naked, that she has this terrible illness.   
  
He offered to call Josh for me. He offered to drive me home, or back to the office, whichever I preferred. But I can't let anyone see me like this, falling apart and scared to breathe. Wondering what I did to deserve this.  
  
I'm a mess. I can't bring myself to cry though. Somewhere in the back of my mind I think that maybe, just maybe if I hold back these tears, Kevin will call me and tell me that it was a mistake, that there was a mix-up in the lab.  
  
I wonder if this is how President Bartlet felt when he was diagnosed with MS. I wonder if he started bargaining with God, promising to go to church more regularly, promising to call his father more often, promising anything, anything, to make his test results a mistake. Maybe I'll ask him.  
  
So this is what it feels like. This is what it feels like to know that you're dying.  
  
++++++++  
  
TBC... 


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Does Heaven Have Enough Angels Yet?  
  
Author: (fauquita@hotmail.com)  
  
Disclaimer: I bow down before the greatness that is Aaron Sorkin, and admit that these are his characters, not mine...although I usually have more fun with them than he does!  
  
Summary: I've gone hard and I've gone cold. I can't make the pieces of this cracked life fit. Please forgive me for wanting to know, does Heaven have enough angels yet?  
  
Thanks: To my partners in crime, Sidalicious and Lizisita.   
  
Note: Yes, illness is involved, and again I'm attempting to portray it with the sensitivity it deserves. Be forewarned however that if these kinds of things upset you, you're gonna wanna skip this one. In addition, this is a sequel to 'Silence', so you might want to read that one first. Oh, and this is entirely AU...I mean, I'll pick and choose what I want to include from third season.  
  
Rating: a strong PG-13 for language.  
  
  
  
  
The day has passed in measured sun-lit color and changes in the wind before she walks through the doors of the West Wing again, clutching her sensible black purse to her side as a talisman. A talisman against what I don't know. But her eyes hold this wild look, and she doesn't acknowledge my presence as she walks into her office.  
  
For months I've noticed the almost subtle changes in her appearance. At first I attributed the dark circles under her eyes to the long hours spent trying to spin the President's MS. The weight loss was easy to ignore because we were all eating less, and if her collarbone was a little more pronounced, we didn't say anything. But she walks with a painful gait now, the grace and elegance absent from her posture. Time and his brother, Care, have set some marks across her brow, and worry lines have spread in a ripple-like effect around the corners of her mouth. But she is no less beautiful to me.  
  
When she finally notices me on the couch, she sighs and leans back in her chair. "I don't want to hear it, Toby."  
  
"Ok."  
  
She shoots a deadly look my way before closing her eyes briefly and rolling her neck. "I told Leo I was going to be late," she says suddenly.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I mean, I didn't know I'd be gone so long, but I told him."  
  
"Why did you turn your cell phone off?"  
  
I try to keep my tone level, and my face blank because I don't want to put her on the defensive, but she's going to have to answer these questions sooner or later, and it's better me than Leo.  
  
She shrugs carelessly. "I didn't want to be disturbed."  
  
"You didn't want to be disturbed?" I ask incredulously. "You're going to have to do a little better than that."  
  
She holds my gaze for a moment and smiles softly. "I just got in my car and started driving. I ended up halfway to Virginia Beach before I turned around."  
  
I look down at my hands clasped together over my crossed legs and sigh. "Do you have any idea how incredibly stupid that was?"  
  
"I needed some time to think."  
  
"Think about what? You work in the White House, CJ, you can't go gallivanting across the state whenever you get a wild hair. You have responsibilities. Leo's pissed."  
  
"Sounds like you are too, Pokey."  
  
"I'm not. I'm just concerned."  
  
Her gaze is locked to the far wall, and there is a look of infinite sadness etched across her features. I wonder if it has always been there, and I just haven't noticed before. It's possible, believe me. When she turns back to me, her face is blank again.  
  
"So, why were you trying to call me?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"You asked me why I'd turned off the cell phone, so I assume you tried calling."  
  
"Repeatedly."  
  
"Yeah, so, why?"  
  
I shift uncomfortably because I'm the one who's supposed to be asking the questions here. She notices my discomfort and pinches the bridge of her nose. With one twitch of her mouth she exudes weariness, but her eyes remain challenging, and she looks like the old CJ.   
  
"There's this thing."  
  
She looks at me expectantly when I trail off and leans forward. "Yeah Toby, my psychic wasn't able to fit me in today, so if you could, you know, tell me what this 'thing' is, I'd be much obliged."  
  
I wonder for a moment if maybe Josh should be the sitting here right now. He's the one who shares her mornings and late nights. He's the one who leaves the toilet seat up in her apartment, and the hallway light on when she's running late. He's the one who fights with her over the paper and the last cup of coffee.  
  
But he's also the one who stormed out of here two hours ago because he didn't trust himself to be in the same room with her. And so here I sit.  
  
"Barbara Shallick is filing for divorce, and she's selling her story to the Enquirer," I say in a rush of breath that I hope is intelligible. But her face is still passive, and so I think maybe she didn't hear me. "Barbara Shallick is filing for divorce," I reiterate.  
  
"Yeah, I got that the first time, Tobas. How is this a thing?"  
  
I sigh in frustration because she isn't making this easy. But she has never been one to make things easy, and so I forgive her this transgression. "She knows about the affair."  
  
She nods her head thoughtfully and takes a deep breath before speaking. "So, I guess we'd better start damage control then. If Leo can find it in his heart to forgive me, we should call a staff meeting and go over what we're going to say. Did Simon get questions about this today?"  
  
Her reaction is not the one I was expecting, and so it takes me a few moments to gather my thoughts. I look deeply into her eyes, searching in vain for any deception. She is too calm. She is emotionally detached, and this is not the CJ Cregg I know.   
  
"CJ, why didn't..." I trail off and rub one hand down my face, scratching thoughtfully at my beard.  
  
"Why didn't I tell you?" At my nod, she continues. "I didn't think it was important."  
  
"You didn't think it was important? What the hell?"  
  
"I don't expect you to understand-"  
  
"Well help me understand then."  
  
She sighs in frustration and pushes away from her desk, and when she speaks, she does so grudgingly. "It's possible that I didn't trust you...any of you," she admits.  
  
"What reason have we given you not to trust us? You're the one-" I stop abruptly because I realize how accusatory my words are.  
  
She arches and eyebrow. "I'm the one who keeps secrets...that's what you were going to say, right?"  
  
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."  
  
"Yes you did." She closes her eyes, but the tone of her voice isn't angry, just tired. "It's not like I thought you'd run out and tell the papers, or that you'd think less of me. Ok, well, maybe a little insecurity about how you'd view me played a factor." She opens her eyes again, and now she's looking straight at me. "I thought you might use it as ammunition...to strong-arm Shallick, or some other senators."  
  
"CJ...God, we don't do that!" I nearly shout as I stand. I begin pacing in front of her desk. "You know we would never use something like-"  
  
"I'm not saying it was rational, Toby. I'm just saying that I thought there was a chance that I might be used against him. And I didn't want that, so-"  
  
"So instead, you let us get ambushed by it?" I don't care anymore how my words sound. I'm angry and all I can think about is that, once again, CJ didn't trust us. "This is becoming a habit with you. Are you single-handedly trying to ruin a second term for President Bartlet?"  
  
She flinches, and I take some pride in the fact that my words have wounded her. Later I might be ashamed at the way her eyes clouded with hurt, but for now I feel powerful. I stalk to the door and grip the knob.  
  
"Leo wants to see you."  
  
Her hand is at her throat now, unconsciously rubbing at the phantom scratch the way she does when she's nervous or mentally exhausted. She nods her head, and I walk into the hallway, leaving bitterness and anger flowing behind me like a bridal train.  
  
  
  
When someone you love dies, and you're not expecting it, you don't lose him all at once; you lose him in pieces over a long period of time-the way the mail stops coming and his scent fades from pillows, and even the clothes in his closet and drawers. Gradually, you accumulate the parts of him that are gone. Just when the day comes-when a particular missing part overwhelms you with the feeling that he is gone forever-there comes another day, and another missing part.  
  
The evening after my father's funeral, I felt he was gone when it came time for my mother to decide whether to stay with my Aunt Hannah, or go home to the empty house. I realized that my mother had choices-she could return home alone, or I could offer to go with her; or she could stay with my father's widowed sister, and even sleep in the other twin bed she had in the room. But as soon as I realized what my mother's choices were, I also knew they were-each of them-imperfect in their own way. I realized that the choices available to her, regarding where she would sleep would be imperfect, forever, and that, forever, there would be something unsatisfying about thinking of her alone.  
  
With Joanie it was easier, because I was so young, and there were no empty rooms and abandoned records to contemplate. Her presence didn't gradually fade from the house because it too, was gone. I'm not saying I didn't miss her, that I don't still miss her. Whenever I see the right shade of blue (a mixture between periwinkle and sky if you're curious), or hear a piece of music I remember her listening to, I picture the tall, awkward girl she was. And sometimes I see the accomplished woman she would have been.  
  
The thing is, Joanie was gone irrevocably. And I knew it from the moment I watched the house collapse upon itself in a smoldering uproar of flames and smoke. But there were moments, visiting my mother, when I fully expected to hear my father yelling at the Mets on TV, or smell the tobacco from his pipe. It has gotten better now that my mother sold the house and moved down to Florida. I don't expect him to pick up the other phone when I call because I know he would never voluntarily relocate to the beach. My mother was trying to escape his memory because in the tall maple trees and snow of Connecticut she saw him everywhere.  
  
I think I miss him the most when a bill we've fought hard for passes, a bill I know he would've been proud of. My mother is always happy, but she doesn't fully appreciate the enormity of having done something important and beneficial amidst so much opposition. She's never had a head for politics. But I know my father secretly enjoyed this because he loved to explain things, and she was always a willing listener.  
  
I don't even know why I'm thinking of my father now. Maybe it's the crisp chill in the air. He used to love playing football in the winter; I think the almost painful feeling of cold air in his chest invigorated him. He said he never felt more alive. Or maybe it was the elderly man who passed me a few minutes ago, wearing the same cologne my father wore for as long as I can remember.  
  
I shake my head as if this will clear my thoughts. Truth be told, I'm nearly frozen sitting here on this bench because I forgot my coat in my haste to leave the building, and I'm too stubborn to go back in. I shiver as a cold breeze rustles the remaining leaves of a tree overhead.   
  
She warned me. I have to give her this much. She warned me about the baggage she came with, back in her father's kitchen last spring. But I didn't care; at least I thought I didn't care. But I think it's time for reevaluation of that particular sentiment.  
  
Because I do care, a great deal actually. She has this power to hurt me that no one else has ever been able to possess. And I find myself resenting her easy laughter with other people when we're fighting. Which isn't often mind you, but I hate that she can still walk through the day, as if nothing is wrong, while I'm lost.  
  
I knew it wouldn't be easy, but I never imagined it would be this hard.  
  
  
  
There are moments with him when I think that the world is perfect. I don't care about neo-Nazis or depletion of the rain forest. Toby and his latest issue doesn't register, and Leo's casual dismissal of my ideas don't hurt. Not when he looks at me with that gentle light in his eyes.  
  
But then there are moments with him when I think that our relationship is a mistake. When I hurt him with something I did or didn't do. When he tries hard to make me happy, and I can only find fault in his actions or words. When he avoids me after an argument.   
  
I've always valued his friendship, the way we can blow up at each other one minute, and buy drinks in apology the next. The way he reassures me when I've made a gaffe and they way he supports my suggestions when no one else listens to me.  
  
I depend on him; I think I have from the moment we met. Sex hasn't changed this. But it has changed everything else. I weigh his words and actions so much more carefully than I ever did before, and I wonder what, exactly, I'm afraid of.  
  
"Where have you been?"  
  
I look up to find the object of my thoughts standing in the doorway, his eyes an unmistakable shade of anger. I don't have the energy to engage in another battle, but I know from the tension in his stance that he's not going to let this go until we've had it out.  
  
"Where have you been?" I return.  
  
"I asked you first."  
  
"Why don't you come in and shut the door so we can yell at each other like normal people."  
  
"Don't be glib. This is serious," he says coolly as he slams the door behind him.  
  
"This is serious because you say so?"  
  
"Me, Leo, Toby, the President," he ticks off on his fingers. "And I think every reporter in your press room is going to bear me out on this."  
  
"In the grand scheme of things-"  
  
"This is politics, CJ. The grand scheme doesn't matter. Here and now does. And here and now you're an adulteress working for an administration that's already plagued with scandals."  
  
The veins in the side of his neck are popping out, and I can't imagine what his heart rate must be, but I must admit that right now, I don't give a damn. "An adulteress, Josh? You don't think that's being a bit melodramatic?"  
  
"No, I don't."  
  
"You're being a child. You're not mad about how this affects the administration, you're mad because I didn't tell you."  
  
"Because you didn't tell me, we weren't prepared for this."  
  
"Oh, and if you had known that I was involved with him five years ago, how would you have handled it? I mean, let me know how the great Joshua Lyman would have prevented this from becoming public."  
  
"I'm not saying I would have prevented it. I just think this is another instance of your deception screwing us over."  
  
"Fuck you, and get out of my office."  
  
His eyes widen in shock at the vehemence of my words, and he takes a step back. He shoves his hands into his pockets and walks towards the door. When he regains the power of speech, he turns to throw a parting shot. "Go to hell, CJ."  
  
"So I guess the movie's off for tonight, then?" I call after him because I don't want him to know how upset I am.  
  
I throw my pencil across the room, wishing it were something heavier. Something that could do some damage to the window, or door. Just one satisfying shatter or thud. I stand up because the office has suddenly become suffocating, and grab my purse.  
  
I don't care that Leo and the rest of the staff are waiting for me in the Oval Office. I don't care that every newspaper from here to Sacramento is going to print this story. I don't care about the re-election campaign, the briefing notes on my desk, or the insistent ringing of my phone. I don't care about anything right now.  
  
  
  
There used to be a framed picture on the corner of the desk. Three men and one woman smiling brazenly at the invisible photographer with their arms thrown casually around each other in obvious euphoria. If you look closely enough, you can see the circles under their eyes from late nights and too-little sleep. But their faces glow with some unnamed joy, and even if they had to throw away partnerships at prestigious law firms and $550,000 a year, surely it was worth it.   
  
I don't know what she's done with it. I only know it's been missing from her desk for three months now. Maybe it was too painful to look at. We were so impossibly innocent, and naïve about things to come. We thought we knew what we were doing. We thought we were invincible.   
  
Or maybe it's not the four figures in the photograph itself that makes her cringe. Maybe it's the unseen man behind the camera. The man we all believed in, the man we followed across the country, the man we helped get elected to office. The man who lied to us.  
  
I don't know how to talk to her anymore. I don't know how to speak without unleashing the bitter words that spark her own resentment. I don't know how to ask her if she's sleeping, and eating without arguing about trade embargoes. I don't know how to tell her that I'm angry too without correcting her grammar, and that sometimes betrayal lies heavy in my chest until I can barely breathe.  
  
The wind is biting, and it has blown dark clouds across the sky. I smell rain in the air, and remember only then that my umbrella is hanging behind my office door. I turn up the collar of my coat when I feel the first droplets, and run towards the nearest open building, which at this hour turns out to be a bar.  
  
It's not particularly classy, and the neon lights in the window are garish and out of place. But it's quiet, and the occupants barely look up from their drinks as I make my way through the dim room. And then I see the almost glowing halo of hair I've spent the last three hours searching for in every church and café across town.  
  
She doesn't notice my presence until I slide across from her in the booth. Her eyes widen in surprise, and she makes a move to flee. But the alcohol has dulled her reflexes and motor abilities, and so she merely slumps in the seat and covers her eyes in a sign of frustration.  
  
"Sam, I really want to be alone right now. Whatever it is can wait."  
  
Only in the harsh lighting of the overhead lamp do I notice the hollowness of her cheeks, and the pallid shade of her skin. Her eyes are dull and ringed by dark shadows underneath. Her shine is gone and it breaks my heart.  
  
"I...what's wrong, CJ?" I'm surprised at how awkward the words are, because it never used to be like this.  
  
"I gotta tell you...that has got to be, by far, the stupidest question I've ever heard." But her heart isn't in the words, and so I don't take offense.  
  
"I mean, what's wrong with you?"  
  
"The same thing that's wrong with everyone else," she replies as she drains the rest of the contents, whiskey if my guess is correct, in one long gulp. "I'm underpaid and overworked."  
  
"Look, I want to-"  
  
"Tomorrow, Sam. Tomorrow."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I just want to sit here, by myself for the next few hours. I promise that you will have the opportunity tomorrow to lecture me, cast me out, and whatever else you all have planned. Right now, I'd just like..."  
  
When she trails off, I lean forward. "I just came here to tell you that I support you."  
  
"How did you know I'd be here?"  
  
"Luck. I've been to every Starbucks in the city. And then it started to rain and-"  
  
"And you left your umbrella in the office again," she finishes with a smile.  
  
"Yeah," I say sheepishly.  
  
"And you support me."  
  
Her tone is somewhere between a statement and a question, and I say simply, "Yes."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Why what?"  
  
"Why are you suddenly lending me all this support? You've been arguing with me about everything from educational spending to Josh's favorite color for three months now."  
  
"Let me tell you a story, CJ." She looks at me in askance, but makes no protest. "There once was a dashing, suave Presidential advisor-"  
  
"You forgot refined, cultured and debonair," she interrupts sarcastically.  
  
"Have you heard this one before?" She smiles softly and I continue. "Anyway, this exceedingly charming Presidential advisor got himself into a little trouble with a call girl, who he didn't know was a call girl when he had sex with her, which erases, I think, all culpability of-"  
  
"Sam! I don't have all night."  
  
"Right. Ok, well, like I said he didn't know she was a call girl, and when he found out, he told two of his friends. But he didn't tell the person he should have, and when she found out, she was very angry."  
  
"Is there a point buried somewhere in this story?"  
  
"But despite her anger, she supported him," I say over her interruption. "She was a friend to him. She was always a friend to him. And he misses that."  
  
CJ reaches across the table and pats the side of my face. "Well, she misses him too."  
  
"I don't know why we've been so angry with each other, CJ. I just-"  
  
"I know." And as I look into her eyes, I see that she does.  
  
She only pulls away when the waitress approaches our table. She declines another drink, but I order a beer. She waits until I'm nursing it before speaking again.  
  
"I guess everyone's really pissed, huh?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Won't be the first time," she says tiredly. "And Josh..."  
  
"He didn't say much in the meeting."  
  
She buries her face in her hand and groans. "I didn't want it to end like this, you know?"  
  
I pull her hands away from her face. "What are you talking about? This is a little fight...it'll blow over."  
  
"I can't continue...I mean, I thought he was...Jesus, Sam. If this is how he handles Shallick, how is he going to handle-" she stops abruptly and looks away, "something bigger?"  
  
An icy hand grips my heart. "Is there something bigger, CJ?"  
  
"No...I was talking in what-ifs."  
  
"You can't live your life in what-ifs. You know that better than anyone." She nods her head half-heartedly and I study her quietly for a moment. "What's going on?"  
  
"Nothing." But her hands are shaking, and she can't meet my gaze.   
  
"CJ?"  
  
"What?" she asks softly.  
  
"Look at me." When she complies with my quiet order, I freeze at the fear in her eyes. "I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong."  
  
"It's not your responsibility to help me, Sam. And I owe it to him to tell him first."  
  
"Josh?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"He's...now's not a good time to talk to him. He's angry."  
  
"I know."  
  
"So you're just going to wait?"  
  
"Is there any other choice?"  
  
"You can tell me."  
  
She sighs and looks deeply into my eyes, almost as if she's searching for something. Whatever it is, she must find it because she leans forward and lowers her voice. "What I'm about to tell you, can go no further than the two of us. In fact, after this conversation, I don't want you to mention it. At least not until Josh knows. That's the price."  
  
"Anything."  
  
"You should think about this, Sam. Keeping secrets is hard work."  
  
"I know," I say with just a touch of bitterness.  
  
"Yeah, I guess you do," she admits. When she speaks again, her voice is trembling, but I pretend not to notice. "Well, the long and short of it is...well, Sam." She stops and chuckles in self-deprecation. "I didn't think this would be so hard."  
  
"It's ok," I assure her. "Take your time."  
  
"I have cancer," she blurts out after a long silence.  
  
It all makes sense now. The weight loss, the dark circles and fatigue. The way she flinched when Toby grabbed her shoulders in a staff meeting once, the way she sent her food away, barely touched, at two State Dinners and one luncheon, and the way she walked into the office one day as if every step caused unremitting pain.  
  
"Are you sure?" It seems the only safe thing to ask.  
  
She must recognize the disbelief in my eyes because she grips my hand and squeezes. "Yeah."  
  
"But, I mean...God...Breast Cancer?"  
  
"Leukemia."  
  
I swallow painfully. "What...what type?"  
  
I was twenty years old, in my junior year at Princeton, when my maternal grandfather was diagnosed with Acute Myelogenous Leukemia. My brothers and I were never close to my mother's side of the family, but that didn't stop me from spending late nights at the library trying to read as much as I could about the disease. Even after he'd succumbed to infection three months later.  
  
"Blood tests don't reveal that. I have to make an appointment with an oncologist."  
  
"Bone marrow aspiration?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"You haven't done it yet?"  
  
"No, I just found out today. I need time to think."  
  
"Think about what, CJ? This is your life we're talking about. If-"  
  
"Don't talk to me like that, Sam. Don't talk to me like I don't understand what I'm dealing with. I've read these damn pamphlets three times," she says angrily as she pulls her hand away and throws the glossy packets on the table.  
  
I bow my head. "Of course...I'm sorry. I didn't mean...what do you need to think about?"  
  
She sighs and runs a hand through her hair. "To be quite honest, I wanted to tell Josh, and the rest of you, first. Well, that was my motivation earlier. Now I have that little matter with Shallick."  
  
"None of that is important. You need to have this procedure done as soon as possible. And then we'll go from there."  
  
She opens her mouth to protest, but thinks better of it and rubs her temples wearily. "I know."  
  
"You're scared," I say in wonder as it finally dawns on me that her reluctance has nothing to do with her schedule.  
  
"Wouldn't you be?"  
  
"Yeah. But you're not alone in this."  
  
"It feels like it, Sam," she admits tearfully as she finally allows her sorrow to show. "I've been thinking about it all day, and I decided that I was going to be strong, you know? I wasn't going to cry, or think about death, but I'm so scared. And just, you can't understand that."  
  
"No, I can't," I whisper. "But I can listen to your fears."  
  
"No, it's too much. You're a good friend, but I can't do that to you. I have to deal with this on my own." Her voice, even though it's still thick with unshed tears, is firm with a resolve that raises the hairs on the back of my neck.  
  
And just like that she's gone. A handful of bills thrown on the table and an empty glass rimmed with lipstick the only signs she was ever there.   
  
  
  
TBC... 


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Does Heaven Have Enough Angels Yet?  
  
Author: (fauquita@hotmail.com)  
  
Disclaimer: I bow down before the greatness that is Aaron Sorkin, and admit that these are his characters, not mine...although I usually have more fun with them than he does!  
  
Summary: I've gone hard and I've gone cold. I can't make the pieces of this cracked life fit. Please forgive me for wanting to know, does Heaven have enough angels yet ?  
  
Thanks: To my partners in crime, Sidalicious and Lizisita. And also to Lin.  
  
Note: Yes, illness is involved, and again I'm attempting to portray it with the sensitivity it deserves. Be forewarned however that if these kinds of things upset you, you're gonna wanna skip this one. In addition, this is a sequel to 'Silence', so you might want to read that one first.  
  
  
  
  
The first drink burns, and the second one soothes. The third takes the edge away, and by the fourth, my grasp of language is tenuous at best. It must be after the fifth glass of vodka that I lose count, because at this point, I can't remember how many I've had. But the bottle is half-empty, and the room is spinning dangerously, and so it's time to stop.  
  
I notice a run in my nylons, and with an idle curiosity, trace it with my index finger. The sound of a key in the lock barely registers, and I am only vaguely aware of the door opening from my place on the kitchen floor. There is something fascinating, and almost mystical, in the constant beating of rain against the window, and so I close my eyes to concentrate.  
  
I know it is him before he even speaks, because his step is heavy on the carpet, and there in an impatient cadence to his stride. He doesn't wear cologne, but I detect the faintest hint of aftershave, the same scent that has branded itself into my sheets and pillowcases. And sometimes my skin, I think.  
  
His voice is low and oddly detached, as Josh kneels in front of me. "You fucked up today, CJ."  
  
"Maybe."  
  
"What are you doing? You seem hell-bent on self-destructing, and you may not realize it, but you're taking the rest of us with you."  
  
I finally open my eyes to meet his dull gaze, and it burns me that this is what we have come to. I know that I should argue, or at the very least, explain myself. But there is some truth in his words, and I am a little ashamed.  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"That's it?" he asks incredulously.  
  
"What more do you want me to say?"  
  
He looks at me in something akin to disgust as he gets to his feet, and I suddenly realize that I have just killed something inside of him. I mentally add this to my list of crimes, and wonder what the penalty will be. Maybe I know already.  
  
"Bruno wants to send you on a leave of absence," he says coldly as he leans against the counter top.  
  
"Is that the general consensus?"  
  
He sighs and bows his head for the merest of seconds before studying the wall. "No one really knows what to do with you, quite honestly."  
  
I want to tell him that I don't know what to do with myself either, but the words die on my lips because his eyes are unforgiving. And so instead I shrug, and climb to my feet as gracefully as possible, which isn't very graceful at all. The alcohol has robbed me of dignity and coherent thought, but this job has robbed me of so much more. And it hits me like a cold wind.  
  
"Why don't you have me taken out back and shot?"  
  
"Don't."  
  
"I'm just saying."  
  
"Look, I just came over to give you a heads up, and maybe grab some things."  
  
"Yeah. Listen, I don't know if I'll be in tomorrow, but-"  
  
"Are you insane, CJ?" he interrupts, his face an alarming shade of red. "If you don't go in tomorrow, you're finished. And there's nothing Toby, Sam, or I can do to protect you."  
  
"Your job is to protect the President, not me."  
  
"No, CJ. Your job is to protect the President," he says harshly, and I hear the accusation in his tone as surely as if he'd spoken the words out loud.  
  
I clear my throat and try to swallow the lump suddenly obstructing my speech. "Yes, well, all that aside, you need to arrange a meeting with Henry's people. The Republicans are going to be hit just as hard by all this."  
  
"Now you're trying to dictate strategy? Now, when-"  
  
"For now Simon can say 'no comment', but I'll draw up a statement and deliver it in a day or so," I continue over him. "We have to play defense on this."  
  
"No way."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"The White House doesn't comment on the personal lives of staff, remember? We all decided that it would be best to let Shallick handle this himself."  
  
"You're all wrong. If we weren't going into the campaign with the MS and grand juries, then-"  
  
"There aren't going to be any more grand jury hearings."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Leo cut a deal with the committee."  
  
"This just happened today?"  
  
"You've missed a lot," he says quietly.  
  
"What...what kind of deal?"  
  
"The committee is handing down a Censure, but..."   
  
"Yeah."  
  
I feel as though we should be celebrating, as though we should be sighing in relief and gratitude that we won't have to testify, that our relationship won't be dissected. But right now I can honestly say that I would rather be facing a panel of hostile senators than cancer and chemotherapy. I don't know what his excuse is.  
  
"The campaign is still going to be the toughest anyone has ever had to run," I finally say when the silence has become unbearable.  
  
"No doubt about it, but at least we won't have this hanging in the back of our minds."  
  
"Right. I still think-"  
  
"It's already been decided. We're not touching this story." His voice is tinged with finality, and so I nod my head.   
  
He must know what it will be like in the press room for me, he must know how I will be hounded, how nothing important will be written if I am delivering the statements. I am finished. But I accept this calmly because even something as important as my career fades to the background in lieu of what I might be facing.   
  
"We're going to bench you for the next few days," he says almost apologetically. "Just until this story blows over."  
  
I chuckle bitterly. "You need to get a new Press Secretary, Josh."  
  
"What?"  
  
"If you don't let me go in there and clarify things, defend myself, I'm no good to you."  
  
"I disagree."  
  
"Well, I'm not going to subject myself to those vultures to prove a point to you. I'll have my resignation to Leo by tomorrow evening."  
  
"You can't be serious," he whispers.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because...because, damn it, CJ!" He pounds the counter top in frustration, and it is only then that I notice the various pamphlets spread haphazardly across the surface.  
  
Oh Shit.  
  
He follows my gaze because my body has tensed in apprehension, and the color quite literally drains from his face as he runs two fingers down the glossy cover of 'Chemotherapy and You'. He shuffles through the three other booklets with trembling hands, and more than five minutes pass before he looks at me again.  
  
"What is all this?" his asks, his voice hoarse with emotion.  
  
"Look, maybe-"  
  
"Loss of appetite and weight loss, easy bruising, joint pain...oh God, this is...I mean, you...this can't be happening."  
  
I approach him cautiously and gently pry the leaflet from his grip. There are so many things I want to say to him, things that I've left unsaid for too long, but the disbelief in his eyes, coupled with my own, is somehow debilitating, and I only nod my head.  
  
"Why didn't you tell me? Why can't you trust me?" he shouts as he pulls away from my outstretched hands, pacing the length of the kitchen.  
  
"I just found out today," I answer quietly.  
  
"But you must've had suspicions...you knew you were sick."  
  
"I didn't want to worry you."  
  
"I give you everything, CJ, every part of me. And I get nothing in return."  
  
"I've given you what I can. It might not be enough, but-"  
  
"It's not," he interrupts. "I can't...I can't believe you would keep this from me."  
  
Anything I say now would be wrong, so I don't say anything at all. But he has become good at reading my silences, and when he grabs his keys from the table, he looks at me in disappointment and remonstrance.   
  
"You don't think you did anything wrong."  
  
"No." I won't soften the truth because I owe him more than that.  
  
"And you would do the same again."  
  
"Yes."  
  
He sighs and in it, I hear 'goodbye'. "I can't live like this, CJ. I can't always be the one making concessions."  
  
"I understand."  
  
"Do you? Do you really?" he asks, his tone bordering on desperation.  
  
I feel like the world has tilted off its axis in a matter of minutes, and it is almost as if the wind has been knocked out of me. He hasn't been happy in quite some time, and I wonder why I've never noticed. I guess I was too wrapped up in myself, in press releases, in MS, in lawyers. In life.   
  
"Yes."  
  
"I don't know if I can handle this. I don't think I'm strong enough," he admits quietly. "I love you so much, and I can't...I can't watch you die. I can't go through it again. I need time to think."  
  
He doesn't wait for my response as he hurries out of the apartment and into the street. I don't follow him because the slamming of the door convinces me that I'm not what he needs right now. Maybe I never was.  
  
Instead of thinking about my shattered life, I walk to the bathroom and remove my contacts, carefully avoiding the mirror. I all but rip the ruined nylons off, throwing them to the floor in disgust. The skirt proves a little trickier, as does the blouse. I fall into bed, spent, clad only in my underwear because I don't have the energy to change into pajamas.  
  
I don't know how long I lie there humming Beethoven's Fifth Symphony as I try to avoid thinking about the future. I don't know how long I lie there biting my lower lip to keep the screams inside. I don't know how long I lie there silently railing against God. I have lost all sense of time as I try to hold myself together.  
  
I jump in surprise when Josh slips into bed beside me, but I quickly surrender to his touch. His hands and lips are everywhere, and I need him more than I've ever needed anyone. His kisses are urgent and bruising, and my fingernails dig into his hips and back. But he doesn't seem to mind. We both welcome the pain because it is life affirming. There is no tenderness in our lovemaking now, only basic human need.   
  
  
  
There is something in the way she walks now that concerns me. She doesn't glide like she used to, doesn't float into the room. She is lumbering and awkward. She is weary and angry, sullen and quiet, bitter and resentful. She is not CJ Cregg. But there are military coups, and taxes, and political refugees. And so I don't have time to think about the woman who is left in her place.  
  
She delivers her briefings as effortlessly as always, and even if the sparkle and trademark wit is missing most days, I can make myself believe that she is fine. She has to be, because we can't deal with a falling-apart Press Secretary. We're just starting to recover in the polls.  
  
Jenny used to accuse me of burying my head in the sand, of ignoring glaring problems because I didn't want to deal with them. And she was right, of course. I know something is wrong with CJ, can see it written plainly in her face, but I don't know how to help her. She wouldn't let me, anyway.  
  
She's been carrying this angry-at-the-world attitude around her like a shield for months now, and it, quite frankly, scares me. Josh assures us that she is fine, and I don't know whether he is saying it to convince himself or us. Maybe both. But Bruno is not fooled and wants to send CJ on a leave of absence.  
  
He's a good man, but so intent on winning that he can't see the trees for the forest, and to him she is simply a liability. The politician in me thinks that maybe he is right. But the man thinks we can't afford to lose her heart. The President was strangely quiet during the meeting, and I know what was going through his mind.  
  
He blames himself for her appearance, for the way she argues bitterly with Sam in staff, and the way she dismisses Toby's suggestions with a quick wave of her hand. He blames himself for the way she can't look into his eyes, and the way she dreads speaking to him.  
  
It doesn't matter that everyone else has gotten over it, that the Press have stopped making MS the story, that we are starting to pull ourselves out of the ashes to build a strong campaign. He doesn't feel CJ is with us, and doesn't think we can make it without her.  
  
But he won't talk to her because he is ashamed. Ashamed at not having told her face-to-face. Ashamed because he has failed to live up to her expectations. Ashamed because he is not the man she thought he was. And I don't know how to tell him that she will never forgive him unless he asks.   
  
So instead I watch the progress of her anger, how it manifests itself in curt words and sour expressions. I watch how she sits stiffly and refuses to give an inch. I watch as she crumbles, and I am helpless.  
  
I don't know how to ask for forgiveness either.  
  
  
  
I have learned to accept that there will always be parts of herself she keeps hidden. The awkward adolescent desperately seeking approval, the graduate student struggling to maintain her GPA while traveling home every weekend to hold her mourning family together, and the thirty-something career woman in love with a married man.  
  
I have only to look at the subtle clenching of her jaw, or the almost indiscernible tightening of her mouth to know that I am approaching something painful and untouchable. She has mastered the art of misdirection, and there are times when I wonder what she is so afraid of.  
  
I have lost some kindness, I think as I span her ribcage with one hand. I don't like that I can feel every groove; don't like what it implies. And so instead, I take one of her hands in my own and gently trace the lines on her palm. But her delicate wrists are mocking too, and so I have nothing to do but pull her into my arms and close my eyes. Maybe I can pretend that...no, her bones are too sharp against my stomach and chest.  
  
If I am honest with myself, I can admit that I knew she was ill. I knew there was something more to the hollowness of her stomach and hips than late hours and stress. But I ignored it because I wasn't strong enough to face the fact that she wasn't ok. We've all done it: Sam, Toby, Leo, even the President.  
  
But they don't come home to her every night. They don't cook meals with her and they don't draw her bath. They don't hold her hand under the table in staff sometimes and they don't get lectured for leaving dirty dishes in the sink. They don't hear her gentle laughter in sleep and they don't share her bed. Allowances can be made for their denial, but none can be made for mine.   
  
I plant a firm kiss on her shoulder and bury my face in the side of her neck. She is so precious to me, and I will never be able to forgive myself for walking out on her last night. She needed me and I failed her. But I will spend the rest of my life making it up to her. Or maybe I will only have the rest of hers. It is a depressing thought.  
  
"Mmm...what time is it," she asks huskily as she shifts slightly in my arms.   
  
"A little after seven."  
  
"You're going to be late for staff."  
  
"I talked to Leo earlier. I'm not going in today."  
  
She bolts upright and her eyes are glittering dangerously. "What did you tell him? They're going to need you in the office today and I want to know what you said to-"  
  
I cut her off abruptly as I capture her lips with my own. "I was very vague, but firm. I didn't tell him anything," I murmur as I pull away.  
  
She searches my eyes for the truth and nods in satisfaction after a few seconds. She runs a hand down the side of my face and leans in for another lingering kiss. I thread my fingers through her hair and sigh because these are the moments I live for.  
  
"We need to talk, Claudia Jean," I say against her lips even though I'm tempted to worship her body with my hands again.  
  
She rests her forehead against mine briefly, and then leans back against the pillows. "I know."  
  
"I read those pamphlets, and then did a little research on the Internet."  
  
"How long have you been awake?" she asks in disbelief.  
  
"A few hours," I admit sheepishly. "I couldn't sleep. I needed to know what we were facing."  
  
"We?"  
  
"Yes, 'we'," I whisper as I take her hand and bring it to my lips. "There's no excuse for my actions last night, and I can't apologize enough. I shouldn't have walked out when-"  
  
"Shh...it's ok, mi amor. I understand," she replies softly.  
  
"How can you understand, when I don't? I just...I was scared."  
  
"Me too."  
  
"Well, I'm telling you now that I love you, and that I'm not going anywhere. We are in this together."  
  
"I'll be bald."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And nauseous all the time."  
  
"They have drugs for that, now."  
  
"And I'll be pale, and tired and-"  
  
"Why are you telling me all this?" I interrupt because she is growing more agitated with every statement.  
  
"I'm not holding you to anything. And I just want you to know what it will be like if...when I undergo chemo."  
  
"I've already read it. I know, CJ. And I'm not going anywhere. If I can live with your stupid Rod Stewart cds, then-"  
  
"Hey, don't be mocking Rod."  
  
I smile at her because this is what it used to be like between us before the MS. She squeezes my hand affectionately and snuggles into my side when I join her against the pillows. "When do you think I should tell the others?"  
  
She is scared. If the trembling of her voice isn't enough, the look of near desperation in her eyes is. I have always taken my cues from CJ, and it is slightly disconcerting that we have reversed roles. She is looking to me for direction now.  
  
"Have you made an appointment for a bone marrow biopsy, yet?"  
  
"You really have done research," she grumbles. "I was going to call Kevin today to see if he could pull some strings...maybe get me in to see an oncologist as soon as possible."  
  
"OK, well, I invited Leo, Toby, and Sam over tonight." At her panicked look, I continue. "Just for a strategy meeting."  
  
"I thought you said-"  
  
"You're right. If we don't let you defend yourself, you'll have no credibility. It makes it look like we think you're incompetent. You have to deliver a statement."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah. So, listen, call Kevin and try to get that biopsy scheduled for this morning. The guys will come over later, we'll discuss your statement, maybe arrange a meeting with Shallick, or one of his people. And then you need to decide how to tell them."  
  
"Tonight?"  
  
"It's up to you, CJ. But I really think you should lay out all your cards tonight."  
  
"But we won't get the results of the biopsy back until tomorrow, and that's only if I can get the appointment today. I don't want to worry them."  
  
"It doesn't matter. I'm trying not to look at it politically, but we're going to have to announce your leave of absence to the Press and the reason behind it. I think you should disclose everything in one statement."  
  
She smiles slightly and shrugs her shoulder. "Until you mentioned it, I hadn't even thought of taking a leave of absence. But I'm going to have to, I mean I can't work the hours I do and-"  
  
"You have to concentrate on treatment, on yourself."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"So, you'll tell them tonight?"  
  
"I guess I have no other choice." She sighs and rests one cold hand on my chest.   
  
"Call Kevin now."  
  
"It's a little early."  
  
"He won't mind," I assure her.  
  
She rolls her eyes, but reaches over me to the phone. I kiss the top of her head and then slip out from under her. "I'm going to take a shower."  
  
"Kay," she mutters distractedly as she flips through a worn address book.  
  
I watch her for several moments from the doorway. The early morning light hits her highlights in the right places and her hair glows like a halo. I don't really listen to the one-sided conversation because I am concentrating instead on the expanse of her shoulders and the curve of her back as she lies on her side. I can't begin to contemplate a life without her.  
  
  
  
"First, your skin will be swabbed with a betadine solution. Then, after receiving a local anesthetic, a needle will be inserted and the cells from the bone marrow will be aspirated. You may feel some discomfort, such as a pulling or drawing feeling down your leg."  
  
"Wonderful," I sigh as I pat Josh's knee.  
  
"You want me to stop reading this?" he asks as he waves the paper around.  
  
The waiting room is unusually empty for this time of morning. The only other occupants are an elderly man grumbling something about punctuality, and a young mother, cradling a small child against her breast. We've been waiting for almost an hour and Josh is getting anxious.  
  
"No, no, continue."  
  
"Ok, well, it says here that the entire procedure should only take about fifteen minutes. After that, they'll put a bandage on your hip, and I'll take you home. You might feel a little pain after the anesthetic wears off, but walking usually helps." I chuckle and he looks at me appraisingly. "What?"  
  
"It's just, whenever we were kids, and we'd fall off our bikes, or otherwise injure ourselves, my dad would always tells us to walk it off. I mean, we could have a broken leg, and he'd say, 'don't cry now, just walk it off'."  
  
Josh smiles and leans back in his chair, placing his arm around my shoulders and hugging me close. "How are you going to tell him?"  
  
I sigh and put my head on his shoulder. "I haven't really thought about it. I just want to get through this and find out exactly what I'm dealing with before I call him."  
  
He nods thoughtfully. "Maybe he could come and stay with us for a few weeks. Your brothers, too."  
  
"My father maybe, but my brothers both have families to worry about."  
  
"You're their family."  
  
"You know what I mean."  
  
"Yeah, still, I'd like to meet them."  
  
"What, threats over the phone aren't good enough for you anymore?"  
  
He is saved from responding when a petite woman with owlish glasses walks into the hallway. "CJ?"  
  
I exchange a glance with Josh and get to my feet. She doesn't seem intimidated by my height, and smiles warmly as I say, "Thank you so much for squeezing me in today."  
  
"I'm a sucker for Doctor Byrne," she admits candidly. "Doctor McCloud," she says as she sticks her hand out.  
  
I grasp it firmly in my own and squeeze. "Doctor McCloud, would it be at all possible for-"  
  
"Bring him along," she smiles past me at Josh and he graces her with his legendary dimples.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Josh places one hand on the small of my back as we follow Doctor McCloud down the confusing hallways and into one of the private rooms. "Why don't you go ahead and get changed into the gown. A nurse will be in shortly to take your vitals, and then she's going to insert an intravenous sedative."  
  
I wait until she closes the door behind her before grimacing at Josh. "Turn around."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Turn around, I'm changing into the gown."  
  
He laughs incredulously and steps closer. "Are you kidding me with this, CJ?"  
  
"My naked body might prove too tempting and I don't want Nurse Ratchet walking in at an inopportune moment."  
  
Josh grins and makes a great show of turning around, whistling off-key as I quickly strip down and pull the thin gown over my head. "You can turn around now," I call as I hop onto the paper-covered bed.  
  
"That's a nice look for you."  
  
I roll my eyes and shift uncomfortably on the bed. Before I can think of a suitable smart-assed reply, there is a tentative knocking on the door and a young blonde woman pokes her head around the door.   
  
"Are you decent?"  
  
"No, but she's dressed," Josh quips from beside me. I pinch his side and smile as he yelps.   
  
"I'm just going to take your temperature, blood pressure and heart rate," she explains as she walks further into the room, smiling shyly at Josh.  
  
Minutes later I am laying on my side with an IV in my left arm and thinking up suitable punishments for the designer of hospital gowns. Josh tucks several strands of hair behind my ear and smiles.  
  
"You nervous?"  
  
"I am about to have a large needle inserted into my ass, Josh. What do you think?" But the sedative has made me mellow and so I smile at him widely.  
  
"Your posterior iliac crest hipbone, not your ass," he corrects as he gently kisses my forehead.  
  
"Details."  
  
"Let's get on with it, shall we?" Doctor McCloud announces as she shuts the door behind her.  
  
"You've done this before, right?" I question as she pushes the gown up around the curve of my naked hip.  
  
"Many, many times," she assures me as she gently swipes an alcohol pad across my skin. "I'm going to inject some Xylocaine into your hip. It'll just be a little pinch."  
  
I try not to wince, but I fail because Josh takes my hand and squeezes comfortingly. "You're doing great."  
  
"Yeah, well that was the easy part."  
  
Hours later with only a bandage and dull ache to remind me of the procedure; Josh kisses my forehead and draws me out of my slumber by gently rubbing my hands together between his own. His breath is warm and damp against my ear and I smile when he pulls away, bringing me with him.  
  
"How do you feel?"  
  
"Starving."  
  
"Well you're in luck. Sam's bringing food."  
  
"They're all on the way over?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Kay."  
  
"Are you ready for this?"  
  
I peer into his eyes and cup the side of his face with my palm. I see the fear, and just behind it, the pure determination. He is tenacious and persistent, and he is my strength. Only he doesn't know it, yet. He presses his lips to the inside of my wrist and I melt at the tenderness in his caress.   
  
"Yeah, I'm ready," I reply. And I am.  
  
  
  
TBC... 


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Does Heaven Have Enough Angels Yet?  
  
Author: Jess (fauquita@hotmail.com)  
  
Disclaimer: I bow down before the greatness that is Aaron Sorkin, and admit that these are his characters, not mine.  
  
Summary: I've gone hard and I've gone cold. I can't make the pieces of this cracked life fit. Please forgive me for wanting to know, does Heaven have enough angels yet ?  
  
Thanks: To my partners in crime, Sidalicious and Lizisita.   
  
Note: Yes, illness is involved, and again I'm attempting to portray it with the sensitivity it deserves. Be forewarned however that if these kinds of things upset you, you're gonna wanna skip this one. In addition, this is a sequel to 'Silence', so you might want to read that one first.  
  
Rating: I'll just give the whole thing an R.  
  
  
  
I noticed the difference in her right away and hated her for it. Hated him for it. Hated everyone, because they were happy and I was left with this darkness and bitterness, and no one realized it. And sometimes I still refuse to join them for drinks or dinner, because it is too painful to watch their intimacy. The way she places her hand on his knee, or the way he wipes the mayonnaise she missed with her napkin off her bottom lip with his index finger.   
  
She and I have never been like that. Would never be like that. And it kills me sometimes when she smiles at him, because in it I see serenity and completeness: two things that have been missing from her life for many years. And she has found it in him. And I never saw it coming until it was too late, until I was powerless to stop it.  
  
It was so easy to take her for granted, to take him for granted. Josh and Donna were inevitable, is what everyone said. CJ is too busy to pursue a serious relationship, is what I told myself. I was biding time, building up the courage to approach her with my feelings, waiting for the right moment. But I have learned that there is no right moment, no second chance.  
  
And so I bite the inside of my cheek sometimes when she pulls him onto the crowded dance floor of some Georgetown bar because I think that could be me. But then I remember that I don't dance, and for us, it would be something different. Maybe something better, like poetry or songs. But I am not that man, either. And so maybe things have turned out for the best.  
  
Leo is worried, that much I could tell from his reticence today in staff. No, he doesn't know what's going on; no he doesn't know whether it's serious or not; yes, he trusts Josh. And then he put an end to our questions by slamming a folder on his desk and asking about the oil tanker captured off the coast of Egypt.  
  
My fingers itched to call her, but then I remembered our words the day before and thought that maybe she didn't want to hear from me. I will apologize in my 'own way', which is not an apology at all, but she will forgive me as if it was. This is what we do. Sometimes Sam looks at me reproachfully, and Leo rolls his eyes, but they don't understand the complexity of our relationship. And this gives me pleasure, somehow.  
  
"Hey, Toby," Sam says as he falls into step beside me.  
  
"Hey," I respond quietly as I take one of the plastic bags from his hand. He smiles his thanks, but says nothing further as I knock on CJ's door.  
  
To our great surprise, Leo ushers us in with a quick wave of his hand as he continues arguing with someone over his cell phone. He walks down the darkened hallway for privacy, and Sam and I are left standing in the empty living room.   
  
"Toby, Sam," CJ greets softly as she emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. "We're not going to have much time to discuss things. I think there's some trouble back at the White House."  
  
"When isn't there?" Sam quips.  
  
She smiles affectionately at him, and I wish I would've said it instead. "Well, Josh made some coffee, so if you guys want to come in here, we could do some preliminary talking while Leo finishes his conversation."  
  
Preliminary talking? I don't like the sound of it, don't like the way her eyes won't meet mine when she says it, but I follow Sam anyway, and nod at Josh when I sit down across from him at the table. CJ stands behind Josh, one hand nervously kneading his shoulder while she waits for Sam to join as at the table.  
  
"I know you already had a meeting," she begins quietly. "And I know you think that silence is the best policy on this one." She takes a deep breath. "You're wrong."  
  
She finally meets my gaze and stares back unflinchingly, almost challengingly as if she is waiting for me to disagree. When no one says anything, she leans back against the kitchen counter and sighs. Josh and Sam trade glances, but she doesn't notice because her eyes haven't left me. She is disappointed, I can tell.  
  
"I need to deliver a statement. We need to work with Senator Shallick's staff. And I need to take a leave of absence."  
  
"A leave of absence?" I ask quietly, hoping the shock remains undetectable in my voice.  
  
Before she can answer, Leo storms into the room, pulling a chair out roughly and sitting down. "You got five minutes to state your case, and then we have to get back to the West Wing."  
  
"What's going on?" Sam asks. "We've only been gone for thirty minutes."  
  
"Shots were fired when inspectors tried to board The Rogue."  
  
"The tanker?" Sam asks incredulously.  
  
"Yeah...only they weren't carrying illegal oil. They were carrying arms to sell to Iraq."  
  
"You've got to be kidding me!" Josh exclaims.  
  
"No, I'm not. So, CJ, out with it."  
  
"I want to deliver a statement tomorrow."  
  
Leo sighs and leans back in his chair. "Until we figure out what's going on in the Persian Gulf, I don't want to put anything else out in the news cycle."  
  
"It will come back to haunt you, Leo. Even if no one writes about it, even if only two people show up to the briefing, I need to deliver a statement. It will come up again later in the campaign, and we need to clean it up now."  
  
He observes her silently for a moment and then shakes his head. "Talk to me about it tomorrow."  
  
"Leo-"  
  
"Tomorrow, CJ," he says abruptly as he stands. Both Sam and I follow his cue. "We don't know what's going on, we don't know how many casualties there are, and we don't know how it's going to end. Your past with Shallick is the least of my concerns right now." He waits for an argument, and when none comes, he turns to Josh. "We need you in the office now."  
  
"Yeah," Josh says as he stands up. "But CJ still has some things to discuss with you."  
  
"Can it wait until later?"  
  
"No," he says simultaneously with her "Yes". They exchange glances and Josh shakes his head. "Tell them now."  
  
"I think on the scale of things, this is probably the least important-"  
  
"Somebody tell me something," Leo says angrily as he shrugs into his jacket.  
  
"I'm going to take a leave of absence." She says this grudgingly while glaring at Josh.  
  
"How long?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"I can't work with that, CJ."  
  
"I can't give you a specific date because I don't know what course of treatment I'm going to receive," she says in frustration as she follows us to the door.  
  
Better to look at the floor. Better to stare at the small stain on the Oriental carpet in the entrance way. Better to concentrate on the intricate patterns and designs. Better to close my eyes and shove my hands in my pocket. Better to avoid her eyes, because I would see the truth in them.  
  
There is something startling in the sudden quietness of the room, and I can imagine that everyone hears the pounding of my heart, or maybe it's one of theirs. Someone is breathing harshly, almost raggedly, and it takes several moments before I realize that it is me.  
  
"What are you talking about?" Leo asks quietly.  
  
I don't have to look up to know that Josh is holding CJ's hand, or that Sam is gripping the edge of his coat. These are things I sense instinctively. And when I do look up, it is not to watch CJ, but our boss.  
  
"I have been diagnosed with Leukemia," she begins quietly. "I won't get the results of the biopsy until tomorrow, but the doctors know that my case is acute. So needless to say, I'll be out of commission for a while."  
  
I have never seen Leo speechless, never seen him look so lost and confused, almost vulnerable. His guard is down only for a moment however, before he regains his mask of professionalism. He inclines his head and clears his throat.  
  
"We'll talk about the statement tomorrow." And then he is gone, and because I can't bear to look at CJ, I follow him.  
  
I don't make it very far before the weight of the news hits me full force, and I have to lean on the wall outside of her apartment for support. Panic descends, and it becomes hard to breathe because this isn't supposed to be happening. Not to her. Her hands are cool against my cheek, and her mouth is moving, but I can't hear what she is saying. Can hear nothing but the blood pounding in my ears.  
  
Josh is beside her now and they both take an arm and drag me back into her apartment. Sam brings me a glass of water, and I am vaguely aware of the smell of the forgotten Chinese in the kitchen. I am hungry, I realize. And I am ashamed that I am thinking of food when my best friend is dying. No, maybe not dying. People recover from cancer everyday, I remind myself.   
  
"How long?" I ask when I finally regain the power of speech.  
  
"How long, what?"  
  
"How long have you known?"  
  
"Since yesterday. Toby, are you ok? Do you want some more water?"  
  
Her concern angers me and I push her hands away. "I have to get back to the office," I mutter.  
  
Her eyes are unreadable, but I know she is hurt. She nods her head. "Of course. Why don't you wait for Josh? He can-"  
  
"I need to go now," I cut her off.  
  
"Are you ok to drive? You seem a little-" but I don't let her finish as I slam the door behind me.  
  
She doesn't follow me this time, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I am disappointed.  
  
  
  
They are all listening to me, now. Waiting for me to cue them, to remind them, to overwhelm them, to balance them with my unwavering intentness. I am not used to this role because we have always looked to Leo. Sometimes I think it is his general aloofness and exasperation at our mistakes, or his never being wholly satisfied with our best efforts that makes us want to please him. He is not an easy man to work under, but there is something about him that makes us feel we would not be complete unless we were here, with him, acting out his vision.  
  
Toby is writing in a notebook with an air of disinterest, but the tilt of his head gives him away and I know he is almost desperate for information. Leo is flipping through files and folders on his desk, an avoidance technique we have all come to recognize. And Sam, well, Sam is staring at his hands, at the floor, at the wall, at anything but me. And I am suspicious.  
  
"She hasn't been feeling well lately, just really tired all the time," I begin. "And the weight loss, well, we've all noticed that. So, she made an appointment with a friend sometime last week."  
  
"And she was told on Thursday that she had leukemia?" Leo asks without looking at me. "This is why she was so late in coming back?"  
  
"Yeah." I wait for more questions or comments, and when none comes, I continue. "The thing is, they couldn't tell her what type she had until they took a bone marrow sample, which they did yesterday."  
  
"And the results of that come back sometime tomorrow?" He looks at his watch and sighs. "Actually, sometime later today?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"She's going to have to tell the President," Leo informs me as he leans back in his chair. "We're going to need to decide who's taking over so we can start briefing on the Censure, and the illegal arms sales. Not to mention the fact that we're going to be digging into the campaign. We need to make the transition as soon as possible."  
  
"I think you should tell him now," Sam opines from the couch.  
  
"It's not really my place-"  
  
"But it was your place to tell *her* about his MS?"   
  
"Sam," I warn.  
  
Leo stands suddenly and bangs his fist on the desk. "Is this how it's going to be now, Sam? I don't have to remind you that you're a professional, and using CJ's illness as a punishment for the President is incendiary."  
  
"You're right. I'm sorry, I didn't-"  
  
"Yeah," Leo interrupts warily. "Is there anything else?"  
  
Toby clears his throat and finally looks up. "The cancer is going to make it hard for the opposition to attack her in regards to Shallick. We may even go up a few notches in the popularity polls- sympathy votes, really-but we need to take advantage of it while we can and build momentum."  
  
I would have expected something like that from Bruno, and maybe even Leo, but never Toby. He knows more about her than anyone, and the two share a closeness that I am envious of most days. He's been withdrawn lately, and they don't spend much time together anymore, but their relationship has never been about words. Theirs is an unbreakable bond that doesn't need nurturing.  
  
He doesn't mean it, I realize, because there is no conviction in his voice. He wants us to believe that he isn't shaken, but his hand trembles when he places it against his forehead and I know that he is in anguish. I let out a rush of air and collapse onto one end of the couch. I feel drained, weary, and it's not from lack of sleep. I look into my friends' faces and see the same thing. This may very well destroy us.  
  
"Go back to your offices and wait for my call. I gotta get back to the Situation Room," Leo finally says after almost five minutes of silence.  
  
Time crawls by slowly as I sit in my office. Sam and Toby are already discussing wording for the press release regarding The Rogue and I can do nothing more than arrange the pencils in my drawer according to length. I don't even realize the sky outside has begun to lighten with day until Donna comes barreling into my office with her coat in hand.  
  
She widens her eyes because my presence is unexpected, and my absence the day before mysterious. She is incredibly intuitive about most things, and she wordlessly shuts the door behind her. Her movements are carefully orchestrated as she sits in the visitor's chair and crosses her legs.  
  
"What's going on, Josh?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"Nothing?" she asks dubiously.  
  
"Why are you here so early?"  
  
"With all that went on yesterday, I just figured.... So what's going on?"  
  
"An independent tanker was caught off the coast of Egypt yesterday. Everyone thought they were just carrying illegal oil, but when inspectors tried to board, they were fired upon. There were several military vessels in the area and a task force was sent to gain control."  
  
"What's going on, Josh?" she asks again as if she hasn't heard my explanation.  
  
"What the hell? I just told you. We're waiting to hear back from the commander."  
  
"I don't mean what's going on in the Persian Gulf, I mean what's going on with you, and CJ?"  
  
I sigh and lean back in my chair. "I don't want to talk about it."  
  
"You don't want to talk about it with me, or you just don't want to talk about it?"  
  
"Both."  
  
The phone rings shrilly, cutting off whatever she was about to say and I nearly dive for the receiver. "Yeah?" I ask tiredly, expecting the voice on the other end to be Leo calling for staff.  
  
"What are you wearing?" a husky voice inquires.  
  
I chuckle lightly and eye Donna pointedly. She looks confused for a moment, but I know it is only an act, and I wait until she closes the door behind her before answering. "An Armani ball gown of silk and lace."  
  
Her laughter is rich and I bask in the sound. "Smart ass."  
  
I glance quickly at my watch and frown. "What are you doing awake? It's barely even six-thirty."  
  
"Couldn't sleep," she admits candidly. "How's the thing in Egypt?"  
  
"We're waiting to hear back." I sigh and lower my forehead to the desk. "I hate waiting."  
  
"Me, too." I know she's talking about more than news from the task force and my stomach tightens in dread.  
  
There is a crisp knock at the door, and Sam jerks his head. "Leo wants us."  
  
I nod, and wave him away. "Look, I gotta go now. Call me, ok?"  
  
She knows what I am referring to and says simply, "Of course. I'll talk to you later."  
  
"I love you," I say quietly, but she has already hung up the phone.  
  
  
  
Adversity is like a strong wind, tearing you away from the truths in your life you hold most dear, and forcing you to cling to what is left. It is in these moments you are forced to see yourself as you really are, and not what you want to be. The startling clarity is disconcerting at first, but it soon becomes comforting because you learn to distinguish between reality and fantasy.   
  
I realize belatedly that I have bent the frames of my glasses in my grip, and it is only when Leo's gaze travels to obviously to my hands that I release them. Charlie reminds me from the door that I have a budget meeting, but I am only idly aware of his words, as if he speaking from a great distance.  
  
"Mister President?" Leo prompts, but I wave him away dispiritedly. "Give us ten minutes, would you, Charlie?"  
  
I wait until the door is shut behind him before looking to Leo. "Have we been blind? Of course she was sick, of course she was. Why didn't we ever say anything to her?"  
  
He has that look on his face now, the one I have come to dread because he is about to tell me some unpleasant truth. He sighs and clasps his hands in front of him. "You were too scared to ask her about media strategy, let alone ask her about her health."  
  
"So this is my fault, then?" I ask angrily. "I didn't see you taking her aside and..." I trail off because I realize how petulant I sound. "Damn it, Leo!"  
  
"I know how you feel, sir."  
  
I nod my head. "Yeah, ok."  
  
"She's going to call Josh with the results of her-"  
  
I hold my hand up and shake my head. "I can't think about this right now, I have a country to run. But I want to speak with her before the day is over."  
  
"On the phone, or-"  
  
"Get her in the office."  
  
"Yes sir."  
  
"Thank you, Leo. Tell Charlie to send them in."  
  
"Thank you, Mister President."  
  
I greet my advisors mechanically, and they must sense the tension in the air because they keep their suggestions brief. After ten minutes have passed, I am left with a two-page memo outlining their economic strategy for the budget surplus and a lump of emotion that I must swallow because there is no room for it on my face.  
  
"Sir?" Charlie stands just inside the office, his eyes unsure as he darts them around the room. "I wanted to remind you that you have lunch in twenty minutes with the Governor of California."  
  
"I thought that was canceled," I say sourly.  
  
"No sir, we told Governor Jackson the lunch was uncertain, pending the results of the-" My groan cuts off his explanation and he eyes me worriedly. "I can call and cancel if you want me to, Mister President."  
  
"No, no. I'll be there. Give me a few minutes."  
  
"Yes sir."  
  
Only alone do I laugh at the irony, and wonder if she planned it this way. I never asked Leo how he told her about the MS, whether he offered her a chair, or informed her while she was still standing across the desk. Was she holding that ever-present briefing notebook, or did she fold her hands in her lap, and maybe later, in prayer?   
  
I never asked how she reacted to the news, and Leo never volunteered the information, as if he were punishing me. Did she cry, or curse me, or maybe ask to speak to me? Did she storm out of the building and start composing her resignation letter in her head on the way home? My ignorance of these facts has never bothered me until now.  
  
But I am President of the United States, and I have an appointment with the Governor of a state with 54 electoral votes. So instead of contemplating all of the ways I have failed her, I tie my shoelace and think, 'what's next'?  
  
  
  
TBC 


End file.
